


Agents Sliding Down The Chimney

by berrevy



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Robbe pov, all the usual stuff, kinda au in that covid's no longer a thing and the belgian markets are open, starts a bit sad but there's nice stuff in there too I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28428840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrevy/pseuds/berrevy
Summary: The smile that twitches at the corner of Sander's mouth is like the tiniest opening, and Robbe takes that as a challenge. He’s always been good at slipping through small spaces.“You wanna see a trick?”Sander sizes him up for a moment, then swivels on his heel to face him fully. “Ok then, magic boy. C’mon.”(aka a late Christmas fic)
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 31
Kudos: 79





	Agents Sliding Down The Chimney

**Author's Note:**

> I had a rough draft of this done like mid-December, but then I got sick and couldn't edit, and then Christmas happened, so AGAIN here it is weeks after it was supposed to go up. late holiday fic is my Thing now, please expect my submission for New Year's sometime around April
> 
> title taken from the awkward banter at the start of the [Bing/Bowie duet](https://youtu.be/n9kfdEyV3RQ?t=88)

*

“What about this one?”

Robbe’s question turns to hovering mist in the air as he holds up a small square card. It’s a print of album art, obscure and dated enough to be something Sander might like.

Sander looks up blankly from where he’s been flipping through vinyl. “What about it?”

“You like it?” Robbe says, hopeful, turning it towards himself for another look, then back out again. Sander eyes it for a moment, then shakes his head with a soft, apologetic wince.

Robbe sighs. “I need some ideas here, man.”

Sander’s hands fall away from the box of records. “Stop stressing, Robbe, it’s not important.”

“I’m getting you _something._ ” Robbe carefully tucks the square back into its fanned-out display on the table, adjusts the corner so it’s not sticking out and smiles up at the vendor. It’s one of those awkward smiles, a sorry and a thank you rolled into one.

“Get me a drink later,” Sander says, close enough now to leave a brief touch to the back of his arm. “I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna need one.” 

Sander turns to peer out from under the stall, grim-faced, like he's steeling himself, and Robbe doesn't have to guess why. The crowd’s a nightmare, a surge of beanies and puffa jackets, what seems like half the population of Antwerp seemingly determined to empty their wallets and weave circles around each other for the evening.

They’ve managed to hit rush hour on a Friday and it’s mostly Robbe’s fault. The usual mountain of pre-Christmas work had held them both back, but Robbe was the one to get here last, throwing himself off the bus and practically sprinting that last stretch to the Grote Markt. He’d found Sander leant against a low railing at the entrance, cheeks hollowed round a cigarette, hunched shoulders and far-off stare as he puffed away. He’d jerked his head as he spotted Robbe, mouthed something with a question in his eyes, breath and smoke curling together in the air.

Robbe’s still trying not to feel too bad about it as they push back out into the crowd, gloved hands knitted together like a tether line. They shoulder through as politely as they can, but a few minutes in Robbe's already lost track of the amount of _sorrys_ he’s muttered everytime someone’s knocked into him, an elbow to the ribs or a bulky shopping bag to the legs. Though it’s kind of hard to tell the difference. He’s pretty sure at one point he apologised to a particularly tall bin.

Once they’ve made their way through the worst of it, they wander amongst the little huts for a while. It’s freezing, and they almost trip up on a few kids that shoot across their path, but Robbe doesn’t mind. Seasonal trips like this are still relatively new to him, so he’s been looking forward to it, especially after they missed their chance to visit last year. 

The main goal is to keep an eye out for gifts, but Robbe keeps getting distracted, looking around himself at the string lights, thousands of them streaming down every hut and looped around around every lamppost, anything at all that’s nailed down. He watches wafer-thin crêpes get flipped midair, smells sticks of perfume and reaches to touch hanging bundles of dried herbs, fingers coming away scented with sage and rosemary. 

There’s a fairly popular Chocolatier’s stall near the centre of the square, and Sander has to tug Robbe on when he lingers too long near a towering pyramid of gold-dusted truffles. As they round the corner they’re hit head-on with the musty note of strong Belgian beer, roast chestnuts and hot oil, grilling wurst spitting over fire pits, and Robbe nods at a huddle of people chewing over brown takeaway boxes.

“Hungry?”

“Nah, not yet.” Sander says with a slight grimace, voice straining over the constant background chatter, the Christmas hits blasting from a nearby stand.

“Is the music getting to you?” Robbe asks, slowing to take a look at him. 

Sander scoffs. “What, ‘cause it’s pop? Don’t pigeonhole me, dude.”

“ _Oep_ , ok,” Robbe lifts a guilty hand as they start walking again.

“I think contemporary music is marvellous,” Sander says in carefully accented, old-timey American, looking ahead of himself. “Some of it really fine.”

Robbe cocks a brow, looks sideways to study him. Sander speaks in quotes so often that he hardly bats an eyelid anymore. That one distantly rings a bell, so he tucks it away in his head, something to look up later.

They stop at a stall with a broken heat lamp, nod to the woman in a red trapper hat behind the counter. She nods back, fleece collar zipped all the way and pulled over her mouth and nose, shoulders bunched up by her ears. 

She strikes the kind of figure that Sander might sketch someday, bored in class and doodling in the margins of his notes, and sure enough when Robbe looks over to check, he’s gone keen and curious, casting covert little glances at her as he commits it all to memory. Smiling to himself, Robbe leaves him to it and starts looking around the stall. His eye catches on a dark silk scarf, and he trails his fingers across it, contemplative, picks it up to unfold against the light for a better look. It’s very soft, shot through with silver thread that glints as he turns it over in his hands.

At his side, Sander sets down the decorative pinecone he was pretending to look at and leans in closer, head tilting towards it.

“For your mum?” he asks softly.

Robbe frowns, taps the hefty price tag with his thumb. “Hmm.”

Unsurprisingly, Sander reaches for his own pocket, but Robbe stops him with a hand to the wrist. “Nono, Sander don’t.”

It tumbles fast out of his mouth, and Sander gives him an odd look, hand still half in his pocket. “Why not?”

“Just…you. Y’know.” Robbe bobs his head side to side, keeps his voice light, “You give me too much.”

“No I don’t.”

“Sander, please. I bet you’ve already got me like ten things already.”

Sander’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Who told you that?”

“No one!” Robbe laughs, quick and skittering, taking a half-step back. “It just…wouldn’t surprise me, that’s all.”

Shaking his head, Sander mutters, “You know me too well,” and turns away to start browsing again, for real this time. 

After another moment of weighing it up, Robbe decides to go for it, splash out just this once. He figures his mum deserves that much. He signals to the woman, and she wraps it in tissue for him, ties it crosswise with springy gold twine. When she hands him the receipt, he stuffs it away without looking too closely at the damage.

He turns to find Sander bent over, flipping through the blank pages of a large notebook - it’s green and leatherbound, with an elaborate clasp and an intricate design cut into its covers. Sander drums his fingers against the spine as he considers it, and the woman tugs her fleece down from her mouth to ask if he’s interested. 

Sander blinks like he’s not sure if he’s being spoken to. He glances up to throw her a brief, wan smile, and shakes his head before wandering on.

*

There was some heavy snowfall the night before, and Sander comes close to falling on his ass a couple times, boots skidding on brown slush when they hit one particularly bad spot. He clutches at Robbe’s sleeve as he stumbles sideways, almost lands them both in a giant skillet of tartiflette.

Once he’s regained balance, Sander braces himself against a tree trunk, huffing an irate cloud as he knocks the compacted snow out of his boot, and Robbe slips his hands in his pockets, waiting patiently. He watches the carousel bobbing and spinning to his right, thinks that under different circumstances Sander would’ve been dragging him onto it, grinning over his shoulder and showing off, leant back with one hand on the pole.

He’s been out of sorts for a week or two now, and Robbe hasn’t been able to help but wonder at the timing of it. Sometimes he still has to stop himself doing that. It’s a bad old habit, one that stretches back long before they met. It feels like something built into him over years, that instinct to keep an eye out, to check and double-check and be ready to step in when needed, and it boils down to family, the way all this shit usually does. No one else had ever really bothered to look twice at his mum, so Robbe thinks he started looking too close, just to compensate.

It’s a hard thing to shake, but he’s getting better at it. He not always the best at giving himself credit, but Robbe can admit he’s pretty good at just chipping away at something until it starts to feel normal.

“You wanna go?” he ventures, casual, as Sander finishes working at his boot. 

“What?” Sander says quickly, head snapping up, one hand still braced against the tree. “No. No no, you’ve been…it’s fine. Look, all gone.” He lifts his leg to show Robbe the underside of his shoe, wobbles precariously and Robbe takes a few swift steps forward.

“Woah, easy,” he breathes, catching him around the upper arms. He takes the chance to give Sander’s face a quick scan up-close. “You’re tired.”

“So are you, you’ve been studying too hard.”

Robbe pulls back, just a fraction. He’s not wrong, exactly, but Sander’s response is a touch too quick, like he'd had it stored somewhere, a countermove ready to whip out when needed. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Robbe says, slow, still looking up at him steadily.

“I’m fine, Robbe.”

Sander seems to barely suppress an eyeroll, before leaning in and dropping a quick peck to his lips. It feels like punctuation to a point, a full stop. Robbe breathes into the cold-hot swirl between their mouths, jerks his head once in a hesitant nod. 

As he draws back, Sander lifts his chin, and there’s a quick flash of something sly and knowing in his eyes. 

“You wanna get hot chocolate?”

*

Half an hour later Robbe’s filled his bag with a few more gifts; macaroons for Zoe, a bath bomb for Milan, a set of sketching pencils for Yasmina that he’d picked out with Sander as guide. Still not much for Sander himself, but everytime he’s pointed to something Sander’s just waved him off, distracted him with something else. A tug along by the waist, a pinch to the cheek, little absent scratches to the back of Robbe’s head, just under the brim of his beanie. 

He’d come to life for a brief, slightly jarring moment as he snatched up a broach for his mum, something festive but classy, bottle-green glass flaring outwards into the points of a holly leaf. But outside of that Sander’s still not having much luck. He’s in the middle of saying something when he gets clipped by a pram, and he cants forward and freezes in place, muscle ticking in his jaw as he glares ahead of himself.

“Fucking dodgems,” he mutters darkly, and Robbe runs a hand up his arm, leaves a sympathetic squeeze at his shoulder.

“Time for a real drink?” he offers, shaking his empty cup. He’d downed his hot chocolate, Sander’s too when he’d complained it was too sweet.

Sander’s eyes close in relief. “ _Fuck_ yes.” 

A brass band has started playing somewhere, the warm, hearty sound of it melting into every corner of the market, and they stand just outside the beer tent to listen, huddled over piping hot cups of glühwein. Robbe blows ripples on the surface and takes little sips, looking sideways at Sander. He watches him yawn, wide enough that his left eye disappears, black-gloved hands cupping the styrofoam to his face. The steam must be making his nose run because he keeps sniffing every few seconds, and Robbe murmurs _schattig_ under his breath without even consciously meaning to.

Sander looks up, sniffs. “Huh?”

“Nothing, just…” Robbe trails off, tips the end of his own nose.

Shrugging, Sander swipes his nose with the back of his glove then takes a long swig, looking around himself. He huffs faintly, more ironic than amused, and Robbe follows his line of sight to where a little boy is stood, shaking a snow globe like it owes him money. His parents are raking through their bags beside him, bickering and searching frantically for something. 

“Not all the magic they’re cracked up to be, these things, are they?”

Robbe _hmms_ into his cup. “Yeah, I dunno. Maybe not. Maybe we’ve gotta just make it ourselves?”

Sander snorts, eyes still on the family. “And you call _me_ cheesy.”

The smile that twitches at the corner of his mouth is like the tiniest opening, and Robbe takes that as a challenge. He’s always been good at slipping through small spaces. 

“You wanna see a trick?”

Sander glances sideways, sizing him up for a moment. Then he turns on his heel to face him fully, a leisurely kind of swivel, quick sweeping once-over with his eyes. “Ok then, magic boy. C’mon.” 

Robbe arranges his face into something neutral, steps in closer and lifts up his cup. “Ok watch this, you watching?”

He cuts his hand across the top of the cup, once, twice, wriggles his fingers as he mutters some nonsense under his breath. Frowning, he swirls the wine around, one direction then the other. Then he chucks the contents over his shoulder into a bush, and shoves the empty cup under Sander’s nose with a flourish. 

“Tada!”

A quick, strangled noise escapes Sander, hand raising to his mouth like he’d tried and failed to hold it in. As he lowers it, Robbe catches that little twitch again, blink-and-you’d-miss-it.

“Robbe you _just_ bought that.”

Robbe cocks his head with a grin. “Worth it.”

Sighing, Sander leans around him to address the bush, the leaves dripping sticky red. “I hope you appreciate the drink.”

Sander cheerses to it with his own drink before downing the rest of it, crumpling the cup and tossing it into a nearby bin. He twists to have a quick rummage in his bag, pulls out a pouch of tobacco and starts to roll another cigarette, and again some automatic part of Robbe’s brain takes note. He has no issue with it, but he recognises Sander’s tells when he sees them, knows it’s not so much about the nicotine as it is something to do with his hands when he’s antsy. Something simple to thumb into shape, suck in quick and flick away. 

“Sure you’re not hating this?”

Sander makes a little noise as he takes a drag, shaking his head _no_. He exhales, thoughtful, and Robbe waits without prompting. Just past Sander’s head, the Stadhuis is lit up in blue and silver, huge lazy stars and snowflakes drifting back and forth across its face. 

“Nah,” Sander says, and there’s something fleetingly dark and cynical in the way his mouth curls, opens partway to reveal a flash of top-row teeth. “I mean, technically it’s better than where I was this time last year.”

Robbe nods, quiet, only noticing then that the brass band’s stopped playing, left an empty void in the air. It’s only confirmation of whatever thoughts he’s already had around Sander’s mood, the circular timing of it, but hearing it out loud still catches him off guard, for some reason. 

He can’t imagine how it feels for Sander. Not when his own mind snaps back like a static shock if he puts more than a foot in those memories, that bleak stretch of a week after the hotel, the worst day of all when he’d hovered in that empty room, useless, barely able to put a hand to anything Sander might’ve touched. Eyes stuck to the sight of his own face smiling back up at him, quick-scrawled _sorry_ sending that awful downward twist of dread through his gut. 

Sander’s stepped away to lean against a low railing, head turned to watch the lightshow. He blows out a long stream of smoke, the line of his profile solemn and sharp-cut, and out of nowhere Robbe shivers with a bizarre little wave of an emotion. It’s something he’s felt before; a quaking, giddy kind of relief that at some point last year had folded itself deep into his body, still peeks out at the most odd and inconsequential moments, when Sander’s doing something as simple as standing next to him, or sleeping soundly at his back. 

It's a fucking trip sometimes, that swift about-face between two extremes, and Robbe thinks this time of year might always feel that way for them; an unpickable knot of happy-sad, like one of those scratchy old folk songs, the ones Sander loves listening to on bitter-cold nights when the windows fog up like shower glass.

Sander’s cigarette has burnt mostly to ash, and Robbe plucks it from his fingers, takes a few steps to diligently stub it out in the metal inset at the top of a bin, aware of Sander’s eyes on him the whole time. He walks back over and wraps himself around Sander from behind, lacing their fingers together. 

“Y’ok?” Sander says after a moment, a touch awkward, clearly taken by surprise. Some of the tension in his shoulders drops away as Robbe presses in closer.

“Mm-hmm.” Robbe nods into the back of his neck.

“Ok,” Sander says, deep and soft. He slumps back a little now, Robbe holding him up. 

There’s a round of _ooohs_ somewhere ahead of them. Robbe props his chin on Sander’s shoulder for a better view of the show, and Sander’s head tilts sideways and down, ever so slightly, to press their temples together. 

“Not bad,” Robbe murmurs, and Sander makes a non-committal sound.

“Your thing was better.”

“Liar.”

“It’s the truth, I swear. I’ve got a thing for dorks who do magic.”

“Happy to be of service,” Robbe says, and means it.

They keep watching the lights for a few minutes. Robbe’s attention drifts to two women stood beneath, arms raised and giggling like children as they pretend to direct the lights around, pushing at thin air before falling into each other, stumbling as they kiss. Sander speaks up again like there’d been no break in the conversation.

“At least I didn’t have to pay you anything. This place is a fucking rip off.”

Robbe laughs, bumps their cold cheeks together. “That’s the spirit.”

He watches the women stagger off together, looks ahead of them to the giant hulking shape of the ferris wheel, spinning slow on the horizon, spokes glittering. 

“Wanna take a ride?” Robbe asks, nodding his head towards it. “It’s not far, we’ve got time.”

Sander looks over at it too, long enough that Robbe thinks he might even say yes.

“Next weekend?” Sander tries, voice cracking a little as it pitches upwards. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Robbe says lightly, presses a quick kiss to his cheek before stepping backwards to untangle from him. He takes a step towards the stalls and looks over his shoulder, one hand in his pocket, elbow angled out for Sander to take. “Just means more stuff to look forward to.”

*

Robbe gets a pretty dumb idea when they pass a stuffed toy display, and decides to just go with it. Sander makes a weary noise of protest at his side, hand trailing after him as he breaks away and picks up a little robin, small enough to just fit in the palm of his hand.

Usually Sander would be the first to hop over to it, big spreading smile as he worked himself into a bit - holding the robin by Robbe’s head, using his best nature documentary voice to draw comparisons between the two, maybe dropping some smartass comment about the bright-red splash of colour on Robbe's cheeks.

Robbe closes his fingers around it, brings it up next to his face as he turns to Sander, ready to channel his own inner Attenborough if needed.

“Hey Sander, look at this,” he says, and sort of bounces the bird a bit in the air, right next to his face. “It’d make a good Christmas card, right? C’mon, get a picture.”

Sander lingers where he’s stood, blinking at him for a moment. Then he shakes his head and steps in closer, one reluctant hand sinking into his bag for the camera. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Not doing anything,” Robbe says, turning the robin to share an affronted look with it. He turns it out again, two heads facing Sander, side-by-side and expectant. “Take the picture.”

He sees more than hears the sound Sander makes, the lurch of his shoulders as he takes them both in, chews at the corner of his mouth like he’s thinking of saying something. 

He seems to decide against it, instead fits the camera to his eye, forefinger curving over the shutter, and just before he hears the snap Robbe opens his mouth around the bird’s head and bites down like he’s about to rip it off. 

Sander lowers the camera and shoots him a frosty look, dark brows dropping so low it’s like they’re aiming for his chin. It’s almost laughable, and Robbe has to try very hard not to as he unsets his teeth from the poor bird’s neck and looks back at him innocently.

“What?”

“Robbe.”

Robbe sticks out his bottom lip, mimicking him. “ _Sander_.”

Sander throws up a despairing hand, but Robbe can see the cracks forming on his face, tiny fissures around his eyes, the corners of his mouth. 

“Robbe, come on.”

“What?” Robbe grins wide, keeps chipping away. “It’ll make a better picture.”

“Oh, you being the expert now?”

“Fuck you,” Robbe laughs. “I’m getting better.”

Sander lowers the camera completely to let it hang loose around his neck, one hand looped in the strap as he looks at Robbe, eyes soft and inscrutable. Then he nods slowly, gives Robbe his first proper smile of the night. It’s small, but it’s something.

“Maybe,” he finally concedes. 

Robbe feels a small flare of victory, makes a face at the robin. “Are you hearing this shit? _Maybe_.”

This time round the reward is an actual laugh, raspy and low, and Robbe makes a pact with himself to go along with dumb ideas more often. He winks at Sander before looking back down at the robin, the sparkling net of lights reflected in its black-bead eyes. He smiles contentedly, curls his finger against the downy red bib of its belly. 

“You want it?” 

Sander’s stood right in front of him now, his hand still wound in the camera strap, eyes flicking up and down curiously between the bird and Robbe’s face. 

Robbe lifts his head, gives him a wary look. “I told you, you’re not buying me more stuff.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” Sander says, and snatches it from him.

Robbe lets out a half-formed little sound, trailing along on Sander’s heels as he strolls off towards the counter. He makes an attempt to tug on his shoulder but Sander just shrugs him off, pulling out his wallet, and Robbe knows it’s gonna be one of those situations where he should just save his energy.

The vendor nods approvingly as he takes the bird from Sander and starts to bag it up. “He’s sweet, isn’t he?”

Even before Sander turns to him, Robbe knows exactly what’s coming. The loaded, upwards swoop of his gaze, that private in-joke smile reserved for him and him alone. 

“He is.”

*

Sander eyes his crêpe suspiciously as it’s handed to him. 

“Why are we paying five euro a piece for something I can make at home,” he picks open one corner to scrutinise the ratio of ham to cheese, a few hot tendrils of steam escaping as he does. “And better.”

“Because it’s right here and I’m hungry.” Robbe nudges him with his elbow, brings his own crêpe closer to his face as a prompt. “Eat.”

Sander doesn’t budge, looks down at him all lofty and unmoved, and Robbe’s left confused for a moment before catching on. He drops his head sideways with an indulgent smile. 

“Yours are better, Sander.”

“Correct,” Sander nods. 

Like any normal person, Sander has the good sense to blow on his food before taking a bite, but Robbe does as he always does, dives right in and burns his mouth to shit, right on cue.

Sander laughs around his mouthful, watching as Robbe jigs and flaps his hand, firebreath leaving billowy trails through the air.

“Slow down, it’s not going anywhere,” Sander says, clearly more amused at watching Robbe strip his tongue on molten cheese than anything else the market had to offer.

“Shut up,” Robbe tries to say, but it comes out all loose and garbled, and Sander laughs again. If Robbe had realised all he had to do was fuck himself up like a moron to get this kind of reaction, he might’ve done it a lot sooner. As it is, he tries his best to glare. 

“N’aww, _baby_ ,” Sander coos as he steps in closer, one now-gloveless hand coming up to set against Robbe’s face.

His fingers trail against Robbe’s cheek, soft and doting, but there’s a smug-bastard glint in his eye that says different, and even that’s a gift to Robbe, to see that back again. It takes the sting out of the pain, if only for a moment.

Suddenly feeling like he should say something, Robbe screws up his face and swallows down the hot lump, quickly rolls his tongue against his bottom lip. Sander’s lashes flicker, and then he stares, hand stilling on his cheek. 

“Does it really hurt?” he says, quiet, eyes fixed on Robbe’s mouth.

Robbe swallows again, nothing but saliva this time. “Kinda.”

“Hmm,” Sander nods, halting and slow, half out of it. His thumb slips down to press into the fullest part of Robbe’s lip, and Robbe takes one tiny, sharp breath in. 

“You okay?” Sander murmurs, and Robbe nods, lip catching against the cold pad of his thumb.

He hadn’t seen this happening tonight, not at all, and from the look on Sander’s face he hadn’t either. Sander inches closer, biting his own lip now. His eyes are clearer, brighter, more alert. All of a sudden he’s looking at Robbe like he wants to eat him.

In a matter of seconds, Sander has them both marching down towards the end of the path, one firm hand twisted in Robbe’s coat sleeve. He ducks behind a thick bundle of fir trees propped up against the last hut, pushes Robbe up against the back of it and kisses him, and Robbe just leans into the wood and lets him in, lets it all happen. His body’s gone loose and pliant, still racing to catch up, and he lets out a soft, shocked little noise as Sander bites down on his bottom lip, gently pries his mouth open with two thumbs to his jaw and a slow, deliberate roll of his tongue. 

He presses in closer, nearly crushing Robbe against the stall with the length of his body, and kisses him deeper, lapping over the sore spot before pulling back, then pushing in, lapping again, rough needy noises pouring out of him like he's been shipwrecked for days is only just remembering how to drink.

Robbe strains his neck forwards and tries to match him, tries to get more of a foothold in whatever the hell’s just happened. He thought it’d be at least another week before Sander would be on him like this, all over him, commanding the whole of his attention, and Robbe tries not to get too giddy, too eager, but he can’t help himself. He never feels more centred, never knows himself better than with the full force of Sander’s weight against him.

He still has one hand folded around his crêpe, considers dropping it for a moment, but he hates littering so he slips his free hand up under Sander’s jacket, fumbles past his shirt to get at the warm velvety skin of his back. Sander’s whole body shudders, pushes in closer against him, and Robbe can hardly breathe. The inside of Sander’s mouth is slick and shockingly hot and warms Robbe all over, and he can still taste the mulled wine, all that sticky bitterness and spice, clove and cinnamon coating his tongue as he whirls it lazily against Sander’s, draws out a long, pained groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched up from his stomach. 

Finally Sander breaks away, and the two of them huff clouds and stare dazedly at each other for a moment, before Sander dives back in to give him another kiss, then another, then two more, messy and fast and smacking against his mouth. He drops his head to nuzzle into Robbe’s neck, one elbow up against the wall, forearm laying flat by his head. 

“Shit,” he says, thick and muffled. He wriggles past Robbe’s scarf and chins it downwards, and Robbe starts at the ice-cold tip of his nose against the tender skin of his throat. He jerks again, harder, as he feels the scalding wet heat of Sander’s open mouth, the achingly slow trail of his tongue from the base of his neck all the way up to the hinge of his jaw. The way Robbe shudders at that borders on violent, and he lets out the kind of fractured, whining noise he knows he should never make in public.

“Wanna get the fuck out of here?” Sander breathes as he reaches his ear, shivery and wavering. “Hmm?”

“But I-” Robbe pants, then swallows with real effort, shakes his head to clear it, “I was gonna get more gifts-” 

_Something for you_ , he was going to say, but he’s cut off by Sander teething at the cool hoop of his earring, groaning softly into it.

“Allee _kooom_ ,” Sander croons, pawing at his hips now, fingers curling around the front of his belt as he starts to grind into him - nothing more than a few slow, tiny circles with his hips, but it’s enough to make Robbe’s balance tilt, turn his knees butter-soft and buckling under him. He stays upright, pinned as he is between Sander and the stall, and Sander hums impatiently into his neck and licks at it again, a quick sweep this time, same path as before, bottom to top, exhaling as he goes. 

“Robbe I’m about two seconds away from stripping you down right here,” he says, an urgent spill from his mouth, and Robbe lets out an unsteady laugh against the high point of his cheek, eyes drooping closed. Somehow he wouldn’t put it past Sander to set himself that challenge, see just how quickly he could pull Robbe to pieces round the back of a waffle stand.

“I’d get a cold,” he says, aiming for casual, aloof, anything to slow them both down a bit. “Plus I don’t think that’s allowed. It’s a family friendly event.”

“Exactly,” Sander pulls back to nod at him, his face solemn and his beanie sitting at some mad angle on his head. “Think of the children, Robbe.”

Robbe laughs, head rolling back against the wood. He looks up at the darkening winter sky.

“Ok,” he says up at it, closing his eyes. “Ok, let’s go.”

Sander grins, wicked and victorious, gives him one more quick kiss. They take a minute or two to cool off and fix themselves up before peeking around the stall, looking out for any stragglers as they edge back out as naturally as possible.

“Shit, I gotta pee. Wait here for me,” Sander says, lowering both hands at Robbe before darting off in the direction of the toilets. Robbe watches him go with a smile, heart bouncing in his chest, one of his knees still shaking, wanting to buckle a little. 

He hums a carol as he waits, something the brass band was playing, picks happily at a hardened streak of tree sap on his coat, then drops his hand and looks around himself at nothing in particular. There are mostly students and young couples around now that it’s later, and he watches a few of them wandering towards the beer tent before his eyes come to land on the stall just past them, the woman in the red trapper hat still shivering away.

With a quick glance in the direction Sander went, Robbe nips back over as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. He nods and smiles at at the woman as he approaches, one hand slipping into his back pocket. 

*

The temperature feels like it drops a few more degrees as they make their way onto the bus, and Sander shivers and chatters his teeth like a cartoon, keeps Robbe glued to his side the whole time. Robbe doesn’t think he has a lot of body heat left to share but he tries anyway, nuzzles in until they’re practically in the same seat, one leg hooked over Sander’s knee and an arm slung across his shoulders. 

Sander’s breath softens one corner of the window as he looks through it, eyes skipping on the scenery, restless fingers skating back and forth across Robbe’s thigh. They sway against each other as the bus lurches its way through traffic, and Robbe can barely feel his toes anymore but he doesn’t mind. He leans his head back against the seat and watches the colour creep back into Sander’s face, strokes his thumb down the short, silky hair at the nape of his neck. He doesn’t mind being tossed around a little if it means getting to do this for a while. 

They hop off at the stop near Sander’s street and duck down into their coats, arms looped together as they start down the familiar route to his house. Robbe talks a bit, makes a few benign comments about school and exams, and Sander nods along but his pace is just a step ahead of Robbe’s, jittery energy about him now like he can’t get home fast enough. 

“Nearly there,” he murmurs as they come to the end of his street, and Robbe feels a giggle rush up his throat and burst out before he can stop it. Sander throws him a bemused smile over his shoulder.

“What?”

“You’re like a kid about to rip open a present.”

“I _am_ ,” Sander says with a familiar little bump of his brows, turns it right back on him without a second wasted, and Robbe beams. He never quite realises how off-balance they’ve been until they start to fall back into it. Sander’s pace picks up again, and Robbe laughs out loud, head dropping back as he lets himself be dragged along.

They walk straight past the big tree Robbe usually climbs; he lingers just a bit, gives it a slightly mournful look as they pass but eventually keeps going, does a brisk skip-hop to catch up to Sander’s side and fall into step beside him. 

There’s not a soul around, so they walk straight down the middle of Sander’s street, drifting further apart with their hands still joined and their feet slowing a little. Yesterday’s snow has mostly turned to brown-ridged slush along the kerbs, but an untouched layer still runs across the hedgerows, lies pure and glinting on the roofs and bonnets of unused cars. 

Everything feels eerily quiet, muted and blanketed with cold, and even though Robbe knows this street almost as well as his own it feels different somehow, like reality’s bent in on itself a little, like working your finger into a strange new pocket in an old coat.

The bulk of last Christmas had been spent close to home, close to his mum’s side as she readjusted, so he’s never gotten a proper look at Sander’s street this time of year. It’s bigger than his street, though he knew that already - everything bigger, the houses, the cars, the trees, the space between them. But the decorations are something else. Every few steps they pass a house that’s completely decked out, lights trickling down the roofs, garlands dipping across windows, little standing figures blinking in the gardens.

There’s one house in particular with a huge reindeer near the chimney; a lit-up silhouette, frozen mid-prance, and Robbe does stop then, ignoring Sander’s groan as he wanders over and up onto the pavement. He stops by the low hedge at the boundary, squinting up at it.

“That thing must cost a shitload,” he mutters. “How do they even get that up there?”

He hears the reluctant scuff of Sander’s boots through snow as he steps up beside him. 

“No idea. Elbow grease?” Sander shifts in his periphery, hands shoving deeper into his pockets. “What even is that, elbow grease? It sounds so gross.”

Robbe laughs softly, but it feels partway removed from him. He keeps staring at the front of the house, every inch of it fitted with something lavish and sparkling. 

“We never bothered with any of this, at home,” he says, quiet.

There’s a beat of silence, and he can feel Sander’s eyes on him, hear him breathing softly at his side. It’s not exactly what Robbe had meant to say but he lets it hang anyway, tries to swallow down the strange little knot in his throat.

“Our house is gonna look like that one day,” Sander says, so mild and matter-of-fact that Robbe can’t tell if he’s joking. 

“You-” he flicks a skeptical look from the house to Sander’s face and back again, “-you can’t be serious.” 

“100%. It’s gonna be a fucking _grotto_ ,” Sander continues, leaning forwards onto his toes. “And fuck one reindeer, we’re gonna have the whole set, unlike these assholes.”

He nods at the house, and Robbe's voice hitches in his throat as he stares.

“Sander, I don’t think-” he tries, but Sander cuts across him and starts pointing around commandingly, suddenly the host of his own home renovation show.

“Sleigh goes there,” he points to the driveway, “but it’s not gonna be red, it’s gonna be black. And it’s gonna have both our names on it in super huge writing.”

“Which initials?”

Sander retracts his arm slightly and blinks at Robbe, as if he’d kicked him out of his rhythm. Robbe's a little surprised to have interrupted him himself. “Huh?”

“There wouldn’t be room for both initials, my name’s too long,” Robbe says, nodding to where the imaginary sleigh would be, because apparently practical stuff matters to him, even if it’s just fantasy. “So which ones, IJzermans or Driesen.”

“Doesn’t matter, both, I’ll make space. We’ll be sharing them by then anyway.”

That has Robbe _reeling_ , has him gawking at Sander with his mouth dropped open, but he barely has time to come up with a response before Sander’s barrelling on.

“Big neon snowman at the gate," he says, waving a lazy hand, "but a hat’s too basic, we’ll give him a space helmet.” 

The idea of it shakes Robbe out of his daze. “Nee,” he insists, shakes his head, eyes wide with disbelief.

“And I’ll be the Sint, obviously, charge the neighbours for photos-”

“Sander, _nee_ ," he whines, half-laughing, "alsjeblieft.”

“What nee, it’s a good idea! Someone’s gotta fund our wonderland.”

“And what’ll I be doing, baking cookies?”

“ _You_ ,” Sander says, measured, stepping around in front of him, “will be famous filmmaker by then, so your job is to record it all. Get it in the vault. And we’re gonna get drunk and watch it every year until we’re old men.”

He peers at Robbe, soft hitch of a smile as he ducks down to make himself shorter. “Can’t put a price on that, can you?” he finishes, leans closer to look up at him, big-eyed. He bumps their noses together, waiting. 

“No,” Robbe breathes, and shakes his head distractedly, brain still snagging on thirty seconds ago, Sander tossing the idea of _marriage_ at him like immutable and absolute fact. Some guilty part of him had always wondered if he’d really meant it last year, stark-naked and wild-eyed, joint bouncing between his lips as he chattered away. 

Robbe thinks he should’ve known better. He feels his skin start to buzz all over, feels like he could let off steam into the cool air, and he opens his mouth to say something but Sander gets there first.

“And also you will bake cookies.”

Robbe shuts his mouth. He stares blank-faced at Sander for a moment, then lifts his hands and shoves him. Not too hard, but it turns out Sander’d had his weight leant just a touch unevenly, because he pitches backwards, teeters on his heels for a moment, then topples over the hedge into the garden.

Robbe steps forwards, hands in his pockets. The hedge is still bristling a little, a naked snowless stripe left across the top like a wax-strip, and he peeks over to find Sander sat up in the pile he took with him, glowering. 

“Whoops.” Robbe chirps it like he’s not sorry at all.

“Dick,” Sander grunts, face darkening further. He lifts one hand and makes a grabby motion. “C’mon, help me up.”

Robbe eyes it suspiciously. “You’re not an old man.”

“Fucking feel like one right now. Allee, schat, be kind to your older boyfriend. It’s the least you could do.”

Robbe knows not to trust it when he whips out the pet names, knows the pout on Sander’s face is all for show, and he wishes he wasn’t such a pushover sometimes, he really does. Sighing, he leans over the hedge to take Sander’s hand, and is unsurprisingly and unceremoniously yanked down into a heap on top of him.

Robbe butts his head off Sander’s chest with a groan, feels him shaking with laughter. 

“Sucker.”

“Fuck you,” Robbe says immediately, loud and muffed into the padding of Sander’s scarf. 

“Fuck me? Ah, excuse me young man, you wanna tell me how we ended up down here?”

“Yeah gladly,” Robbe lifts up his head and nods enthusiastically, “you were being a dick.”

“So that’s a no to baking for me?” 

Robbe pushes himself up until he’s straddling Sander, dark spots blooming on his jeans as his knees sink into the snow. He takes one look at Sander’s smug expression and knows he could go another couple of rounds, knows he’s getting into in one of those moods where he’s gonna have a comeback for anything, and Robbe's missed that, too. But he doesn't want to just come out and tell him that, doesn't want to break whatever spell they're under, throw him off by saying something clumsy. So he pushes the bulk of his weight down into Sander’s stomach, scoops up two handfuls of snow and sandwiches them either side of his head. 

Sander immediately yelps and jerks upwards, all scrambling limbs beneath him, twisting back and forth as he tries to shake it off, and Robbe gets so distracted laughing at him that he leaves himself open for a sucker punch, lets out a screech of surprise as he receives a packed handful right to the face. 

It descends pretty quickly from there, and they end up wrestling around in the snow for a while - Robbe’s not sure how long, definitely longer than they should in this kind of weather - and they’re soaked clean through by the time they call it quits, Robbe now pinned on his back with Sander looming above him, one loaded hand hovering in the air. 

“Say sorry,” he says, chest heaving. 

“No,” Robbe pants back up at him.

“Say it, say you’re sorry.”

Robbe squirms beneath him, bites down on the side of his lip. He shakes his head, _no_. 

Sander looms closer, one hand braced by the dip of Robbe’s shoulder, his smile dark and predatory. “C’mon, beg me.”

“ _F-fuck_ nee,” Robbe breathes, teeth mincing up his speech as they start to chatter.

“Do it,” Sander instructs, eyes flashing as he presses his full weight down along Robbe’s body. “We both know you’re good at it.”

Robbe goes dead quiet, jaw still ticking and bouncing as he stares upwards. He’s still a little side-swiped by Sander talking like this again, the way that kind of shit just starts rolling out of him when he’s coming back into himself. The way he likes to breathe it hot into Robbe’s ear on hazy mornings, wriggled up against his back and sinking slow inside him, mouthing across his neck with both arms locked possessively at his chest. The way the running stream from his mouth gets faster and filthier as he punches moans out of Robbe with every twist of his hips. 

Robbe's completely still now, his mind practically whiting out as he pictures it, and that’s when Sander takes the opportunity to shove the full handful of snow right down the front of his coat.

The shock of it has Robbe gasping and bucking so hard that he throws Sander off him. As soon as he’s free he scrambles up onto his elbows, frantically trying to shake it out, and Sander howls with laughter beside him, crawls around all heavy and shambling like he’s weak with it. It’s one of those great rasping laughs of his that sounds like it’s shot through with cracks, scraping against itself, and Robbe doesn’t even bother to act annoyed, doesn’t even pretend to hide his grin at hearing it again. 

“Why d’you always have to play dirty,” he jerks his head across his shoulder to where Sander has now flopped down to lounge on his side, one foot kicked over the other like he’s right at home.

“What d’you mean _always_?”

“I mean anytime we’re competing over something.”

Sander _pffs_ , “Like what?” 

Wordlessly, Robbe lifts his brows. He gets a melodramatic eyeroll in response. 

“Tennis was different, I needed to even the playing field. Plus that game sucks anyway.”  
  
Robbe leans back into his hands and casts a thoughtful look up at the sky. It’s coal-black by now, spangled with silver, like one of those fancy scarves at the market.

“Aaah,” he breathes, and watches as it floats upwards, dissipates. “Does anyone up there hear that? That is that the sound of a man who got his ass kicked.”

“Yeah, keep talking IJzermans,” Sander says, voice straining as he starts to push up onto his feet, “we know who comes out on top when it really matters.”

Sander shoots him down a wink, and Robbe’s grin widens on pure instinct. He feels like he’s sat in a puddle of ice water, soaked through to the bone, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Sander eventually breaks eye contact to make a concerned face down at himself, palming down the front of his body. 

“I think my dick’s frozen,” he mutters.

“Wha…how the fuck’d you get snow in there?”

“Not a fucking clue.”

Grimacing, Sander tugs at a damp patch near his crotch and wriggles around a little, then hops once or twice on the spot like he’s trying to shake something out. As he hops a third time, his foot hits a slick patch and he almost trips again, skids around for a moment like a baby deer trying to stay upright. His cheeks and nose are flushed red and Robbe’s suddenly hit with an uncontrollable giggle fit, laughs so hard he thinks Sander’s neighbours are gonna end up with the market’s finest gourmet hot chocolate all over their neat box hedges. 

“Ugh, I’m gonna be sick,” he groans, listing off to one side as Sander finally regains his balance, holds himself carefully in place for a moment with both hands hovering in the air.

“Aah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sander says, and starts to brush himself down gracefully, barely a dent in his pride. “I know this family, they’re very house proud.”

As if summoned, a light flicks on in the front window, muffled voices travelling closer to the door. Both their heads snap over at once, and then Robbe’s scrambling upwards in a panic, chanting “ _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ ” and staying right on Sander’s heels as he leapfrogs the hedge and starts tearing down the street. 

“Snel, jongen, snel!” Sander shouts back over his shoulder, and his laughter is a plume of mist around his head, falling back and behind him, a trail for Robbe to follow. Robbe ducks his head and does so, big wild grin splitting his face as he sprints faster.

In less than a minute they’re falling against Sander’s front door, and Sander almost gets a mouthful of wreath as he stumbles forwards, stabbing his key into the lock.

“ _In, in, in_ ,” he urges, hand spread on Robbe’s back as he shoves it open. Robbe knocks into an open delivery box as he trips inside, almost sends a flurry of puffed white packing peanuts all over the place.

They take a moment to stand doubled-over in Sander’s soft-lit hallway, swaying on their feet, heaving in air and letting out bursts of breathless laughter, all shivery with adrenaline. Sander falls back against the banister, slides down a bit with his knees bent and his head tilted up. 

“Fuck.”

“Feeling better?” Robbe all but wheezes, looking up at him with his hands braced on his knees. Usually he wouldn’t just come out and ask, or would at least work up to it, but it slides out easy now, giddy bloodrush loosening him up all over.

Sander lays one hand over his stomach, and it must be the same for him, because the smile that spreads across his face is dazed and wrung-out, but genuine all the same. He nods.

*

Sander’s parents are out at a drinks party, so they steal a quick shot of his mum’s genever to warm up, fingers stiff with cold as they fumble the little glasses up to their mouths. Robbe meets Sander’s offered toast with a clink and knocks it back in one, shivers as the slow scorch slides its way down through him.

“Hoo!” Sander exclaims, strained like his throat’s closing over, one side of his face all scrunched up. “That’ll work.”

Robbe nods, eyes closed and the back of his hand held to his mouth as the liquor hits his belly and blooms outwards, smoother than he’s used to.

“Yep,” he answers, and the word feels hot leaving his mouth.

Sometimes that feeling still takes him back to the old days. Those nights he used sink whatever was closest to hand until his head floated off and his body slipped out from under him, until he’d end up in a boneless heap, wilting over one of the boys as they carted him home.

Back in the here and now, Sander makes a little _bleugh_ noise, sticking out his tongue, and the rest of it feels like a different life altogether, faraway and surreal, a reflection lagging two beats behind. Feels even further as Sander clasps his face and backs him up until his heels hit wall, kisses him soundly until whatever was left in his mouth is neatly licked away.

A post-adrenaline lull eventually settles over them, and they traipse up to Sander’s bedroom to shed their soaked clothes. Robbe’s shirt makes a thick peeling noise as it comes away from his skin, like heavy duct tape being ripped off a package, and they dry off as fast as they can, throw on whatever they can kind that’s softest and warmest. Robbe takes from his small drawer of stayover clothes, lets out a pleased sigh as he snuggles into his navy blue hoodie, and Sander goes for all black as usual, black sweats and black band hoodie, T REX stamped in thick red capitals near the bottom. It’s the same one that had once prompted Robbe to ask in all seriousness if he was into dinosaurs, and Sander loves wearing it for that exact reason, says it still makes him smile. Robbe thinks he does it mostly to get a rise out of him, coax out a cheap blush without even having to work for it.

Sander wanders off into his ensuite to towel the snowmelt from his hair, singing something Robbe recognises, and Robbe half-listens as he shoves the green notebook to the very bottom of his bag, buries it beneath books and various other presents. When he hears the light click off in the bathroom, he nudges it under Sander’s bed with his foot, looks up to find Sander strolling towards him with the towel slung round his neck. His hair is an artful mess, his gaze heavy and loaded, and Robbe’s stomach does a swift little tumble as he takes his time getting closer. 

Once he’s stood right in front of him, Sander pulls him in by the hips and hovers near his mouth, a two-step routine that Robbe knows by heart. He does his bit, slides his hands up Sander’s arms to rest at his shoulders, curling in the cosy folds of his hood. 

“What were you doing,” Sander asks lowly, swaying him side to side.

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” Sander says, barely above a whisper as he leans in to close the gap, but Robbe leans back out of his reach.

“They gonna be gone long?” 

Sander nods, eyelids heavy as he chases Robbe’s mouth, and it takes nearly all of his willpower to turn his cheek to it. He wants it, in fact he’s more pent-up than he’s been since lockdown, but now that they’re here and warm and dry, he wants to give Sander time to settle, just in case he's not quite up to it yet. Besides that, Robbe's hungry.

He says as much, and Sander huffs. “You had stuff at the market.”

“I bought stuff at the market. Didn’t finish it.” Robbe rolls his shoulder upwards, closes the gap as Sander starts trying to get at his neck, and Sander pulls away to throw him a petulant look.

“Oh, and that was my fault was it?”

“It was exactly your fault. So you should feed me now.”

Sander heaves out a great sigh as he releases him. “Fine. But only cause you’re gonna need the energy later.”

Back down in the kitchen, Robbe hops up onto the island counter and puts away a few rounds of toast spread thick with speculoos, handing Sander his empty plate for refills almost as soon as it’s passed to him.

There’s a handmade display sat next to him on the counter; a large gold plate with candles and looping fresh greenery, little jewelled berries strewn across the bottom. It’s Sander’s mum’s handiwork, and Robbe smiles as he studies it, chewing happily. It makes him feel good to know the artistic streak runs in the family. He likes to think of Sander and his mum sharing something like that.

Beside the display is a big bowl of peppermint sweets, those little red-and-white pinwheels that you’d buy in bulk, so Robbe puts away about a third of them without thinking, stiff plastic wrappers crackling as he twists open one after another and drops them into a neat pile at his hip. He swings his legs and listens as Sander talks about his end of term projects, words flowing easier now, faster, splashes of colour through his voice. He ends up talking uninterrupted for a good ten minutes, Robbe making small noises of encouragement every now and again, nodding along. 

“Maybe it’s not what they’re looking for, but fuck it,” Sander shrugs, and turns to flick the kettle on, rooting out that weird herbal tea that’s supposed to help him sleep, or at least unwind enough to come close. Robbe thinks it tastes like shit, bitter and grassy like something scooped out of a pond, but he nods when Sander bounces a sachet in the air at him. He doesn’t mind drinking it in solidarity every now and again.

Sander passes him a mug and leans against the counter opposite, eyes crinkling over the rim of his mug as he watches Robbe muscle it down.

“You don’t have to drink that, y’know,” he says, after swallowing.

Robbe looks up quickly, both hands tugging it closer to his chest. 

“I know,” he says, voice maybe a little more high and defensive that he’d been aiming for. He takes a big, demonstrative gulp to compensate. 

For a moment Sander just watches him, his expression somewhere between amused and calculating, four fingers curved through the handle of his mug, thumb tapping at the side. 

“And you don’t have to get me a bunch of shit.”

Robbe nods, swallowing his latest sip and looking down as he sets his mug beside him. “I know,” he says again, lightly, hoping Sander will just leave it there.

“No, I mean. Just because that’s what I do…it’s not like I’m setting a benchmark or anything. I just,” Sander pauses, shrugs again, but the back-and-forth flick of his eyes between Robbe’s is probing, engaged. “Get carried away. As usual.” 

Robbe squirms a little, one hand knocking over his pile of wrappers as he grips the counter and pushes down to readjust himself. It’s still hard, not to feel like he’s somehow at a deficit for everything Sander’s given him. And it’s not just the big stuff, the grand gestures whipped out for special occasions. It’s the little things that have accumulated over time, the gifts that aren’t tied to any date or milestone in particular; a sketch slipped through his letterbox on a Tuesday morning, a lovenote puzzled together from song links and timestamps, a midnight trip to a secret spot that makes the whole city feel new, makes the map of _home_ sprawl out further in his head. 

It’s all the adoration he lays at Robbe’s feet, casually, instinctively, with all the gentle bluntness of a cat dropping a prize from its mouth. It has a way of hitting Robbe all at once, sometimes.

“Plus I just like spoiling you,” Sander says with a playful head-tilt, a prompt to break up the obvious silence. Robbe lets out the breath he’d been holding, lets his mouth curve up into something shy, one hand coming up to palm at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I know. I just…” he says slowly, darts a look up at Sander’s face and away again. “Can’t give you back as much.”

He drums his fingers against the edge of the counter as he says it, tries to override the urge to curl himself over into knots. Sander sets his mug down with a thoughtful purse of his lips, seems to pick over his next words carefully.

“Robbe. All that…” he waves a vague hand, “it’s just me giving back to _you_ , you get that right?”

Sander looks over at him as he says it, with his head dipped gently and a tender kind of disbelief on his face, like he’s having to remind Robbe of his own name. It gives Robbe a raw fluttery sort of feeling, heat rising in him, seeping out from his core to the surface of his skin. He takes a moment to let it work through his body, hand falling away from his neck as he looks down between his knees.

“For what.” 

It comes out funny, doesn’t even sound like a question, and Sander slowly pushes himself off the counter to move closer, stepping up into the cradle of his legs. He lifts a hand that Robbe leans into without thinking, and the stroke of his thumb is careful and steady at Robbe’s cheek.

“You shouldn’t have to ask that, Robin.”

With a tiny sigh, Robbe turns to nestle his nose and mouth into Sander’s hand, eyes falling shut.

“If you’re talking about a few dumb magic tricks,” he mumbles, some of it getting lost in the warm crevice of his palm, “I don’t know if that makes us even.”

It sounds like Sander’s about to say something else, but Robbe stops him with a slow, wet kiss to the centre-point of his palm, eyes opening partway to look up at him. Sander stares, fingers flexing against Robbe’s temple, a few of them starting to sink past his hairline, pinky slipped just behind his ear.

“You know what I mean,” Sander says, voice low and velvety, one brow quirking; a tiny, subtle movement Robbe would’ve missed if he was any further away. “Besides, your tricks are pretty good.” 

As soon as he starts to inch closer, Robbe lets out a quick puff and softly headbutts his hand away, falls forwards to gather him up in a hug.

Somehow it feels like the first time they’ve held each other like this for a while, even though Robbe knows it probably isn’t. It feels solid and deliberate, Sander pressed against the counter, Robbe scooted right to the edge, and a strange, soft noise slips out of him before he can stop it. His eyes drop shut again at the tight loop of Sander’s arms at his waist, and he folds his own across Sander’s shoulders, ankles interlocking at the backs of his thighs, all four limbs twined around him, wrapping him up. 

He wants to tell Sander that it’s not charity, that he’s not giving anything of himself simply by being with him. That all he wants is to spoil him properly in kind, as soon as he has the means to. But he’s said that a hundred times, and it doesn’t seem like a moment for talking, so he burrows his face into Sander’s neck and breathes deep. 

*

When Robbe complains that he’s still cold, Sander goes hunting around the living room for firelighters, bends down to swipe about under a cabinet before surfacing with a flat brown box held aloft. He tosses a few woolly bundles into the grate and grabs the gas lighter from the kitchen before getting to work. Robbe hunkers down beside him to help, passing him whatever he needs as he leans forwards, stuffing in wads of rolled up newspaper and blowing on kindling with a soft, focused frown. 

Eventually he leans back onto his haunches, a satisfied spark in his eyes as he watches the timid flame start to splutter and take hold. Within a minute or two, one especially large flame starts to lick up high towards the roof of the chimney, and Sander makes a pleased noise, curves one hand up through the air to follow the shape of it.

“Ah, look, look,” he breathes, nudging sideways at Robbe, and Robbe _ooohs_ and nods, entranced.

“Man make fire,” Sander smacks his chest one-handed and Robbe laughs, leaning his weight onto one palm, right ear fitted against his shoulder as he looks at him. This time last week Sander had barely noticed that his room was freezing, wouldn’t even get up to flick on his heater. Robbe lays his free hand across Sander’s thigh and smiles, feels the growing heat-glow on the side of his face.

They sit side by side, watching the flames until they’re both thoroughly thawed out, then Sander gets to his feet, both hands offered out to pull him up. Robbe takes them, lets himself be led over to the couch and guided down to sit perched across his legs. 

“Now,” Sander breathes, pleased. “This is more like it.”

Nodding, Robbe scrubs a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “Told you you’d get into the spirit eventually.”

“Mmm.” Sander nudges against his hand and goes quiet, rocking him a little, fire crackling away happily in the background. 

“Sooo,” he says eventually, rocking Robbe further into him, a melodic note to his voice that has Robbe’s instincts flaring up. “You been a good boy this year?”

And there it is. Robbe sighs, leans back with both arms looped around Sander’s neck and a pleading look shot up towards the ceiling, and Sander’s hands instinctively circle tighter around his waist to keep him from tipping over. 

“ _Fuck_ , not again…” he groans, head falling backwards. Sander snorts as he winds his arms tighter. 

“C’mere, boy,” he grins, swooping in for Robbe's exposed throat, and Robbe quickly throws himself sideways, scrambles over onto the free space beside him. Sander twists to grab him again, as good as pounces on top of him but Robbe pulls up his knees and forces him back before wriggling away, laughing and kicking at Sander’s hands as he starts to climb over the back of the couch.

“ _Nononononono_ ,” he chants, giddy, and tumbles over the edge, grunting as he hits the carpet. He rolls with the momentum for a couple of feet, stops perilously close to the Driesens' Christmas tree, a real one that towers and twinkles in the corner, nearly scrapes the ceiling. 

Sander says something fast and animated behind him, practically leaps over the couch to land in a heap, half on top of Robbe’s chest, and the tree shivers from the impact, earthy pine-scent wafting off so strong that Robbe can feel it in the back of his throat. Sander laughs with his face smushed into Robbe’s collarbone and one hand pinning down his left shoulder, and Robbe pants beneath him, thrilled.

“I still-” he swallows, takes a few more gulps of air, “-still don’t understand why you like that Sint shit so much.”

Sander rolls off him to catch his breath, eyes closed as he wags a sideways finger. “ _You_ were the one that told me to keep the costume.”

“Not for sex,” Robbe says, and nudges a feeble elbow into his side.

Sander apparently can’t come up with a good answer for that one, instead just rolls back on top of Robbe and goes straight for his weak spot - a feathery flutter-touch at his sides that has Robbe’s entire body snapping inwards so violently he knees Sander right in the balls. 

The groan that punches out of Sander is immediate and guttural, and Robbe’s laughter dies in his throat, mouth dropping open in horror as Sander flops weakly onto his side, his whole face screwed up in agony. Without really knowing what he’s doing, Robbe quickly scrambles up into a sitting position, starts hovering over him in a panic.

“Oh no, oh shit shit _shit_ Sander, sorry!”

Another sickening groan in response. A little cluster of knots deepens between Sander’s brows as he rocks back and forth, cupping himself with both hands and puffing out short breaths like he’s having contractions.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m so sorry, baby, here-” Robbe goes to reach for him but Sander flinches away with a high _yip_ of a noise. Robbe drops his hand back down, tries not to roll his eyes. 

“Alleeee, it’s not that bad.”

“Says the guy who has both balls intact,” Sander grits out, throwing him a sharp glare out of the corner of his eye, and Robbe can see a little wetness gathered there. 

“Ok, ok, that’s fair,” Robbe leans back to give him some space, feels one of the low tree branches brush the back of his head as he does. When he’s done glaring Sander starts puffing again, chipmunk-cheeked and ridiculous, and Robbe can’t help the stutter of laughter that falls out of him. He presses a quick hand to his mouth, then switches it to a fist, trying to force it back.

“S’not funny.”

“It’s not, baby, it’s not, I know,” Robbe soothes, one hand instinctively shooting out to touch him again before he catches himself. “You think you can move?”

“ _Ugh_. Just…gimme a second. Mum’ll kill me if I throw up near the tree.”

Robbe does let out a full snort of laughter this time. “What are you, a house pet?”

Sander makes a weird face as he flops over onto his back, a grimace and a smile twisted into one. “Sometimes.”

For a couple of minutes Robbe just lets him be, watches quietly as his breathing slows and the pained lines on his face start melting away. 

“I really am sorry,” he says eventually, with a small shuffle closer, weight propped on one elbow. Sander doesn’t show any signs of protest, so Robbe shuffles in further, inch by inch, until he’s right up against his side.

He dips his head, watching Sander’s face warily, then presses a tentative kiss to his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” He plants another one at his temple, and another above his eye. “Sorry.” 

The residual tension seems to bleed from Sander’s body, arms snaking slowly above his head as he lets it happen. Robbe presses one last lingering kiss to the side of his mouth, and whispers again, “Sorry.”

Sander lets out a persecuted sort of sigh, but tilts his face up for another kiss. His hands curl and uncurl above his head, and he twists into a content little cat-stretch, eyes blinking open to focus on Robbe. It seems like he’s actually pretty content to be right where he is, even after a knee to the balls.

A few stray pine needles are scattered on the carpet around his head, and there’s a pink stripe of a flush across the bridge of his nose, ribboned over the tops of his cheekbones. There’s still some moisture in his eyes, catching the tree lights and tinsel, turning them to green glitter as he tilts his chin up further, waiting. 

Robbe stares downwards, dark fringe twitching as he blinks. There’s a bit of hard sweet stuck in his back tooth, a stubborn plug that he tongues at absently until it dissolves, floods his mouth. Then he lowers down, mouth opening over Sander’s, not quite touching.

“You smell like peppermint,” Sander whispers, and Robbe closes the gap and kisses him. 

He keeps it as gentle as he can, just catching his lips softly, barely meeting Sander’s tongue as it flicks out. Unlike Sander, it’s not really in his nature to hold out like this, but he wants to give him space to back out, just in case it’s still too soon. 

Sander makes a small keening noise and grasps the back of Robbe’s neck, thumb pressing into his pulse point as he hauls him down deeper, and that seems to speak pretty clearly. Robbe can practically hear it in the way Sander’s tongue swipes insistently past his lips - _yes, okay, fucking yes_ \- and he laughs into his mouth, nose squashed up against his cheek. 

Dropping down onto his elbows, Robbe opens his mouth wider, moves his head into the rhythm of it as Sander’s hands smooth down his sides, slip down the backs of his thighs and up again, before settling across his ass and squeezing gently. It’s another statement, another little nudge - _c’mon, I want it, c’mon_ \- so Robbe drops his hips with a quick whimper, starts to twist his body downwards until the solid press of Sander’s dick at his stomach has something hot and sluggish unfurling inside him.

He pulls back, foggy-eyed, bumps their foreheads together. “You forgive me?”

Sander’s flushed all over now, uneven smirk stretching his face as he pretends to think. His teeth pull at his swollen bottom lip, releasing it slowly. “Mmm, not yet.” 

“No?”

Shaking his head, Sander does a wicked little writhe against the floor, the hem of his hoodie riding up. “Uh-uh. You’ve gotta say sorry some more.”

Robbe grins. He’s never had any trouble doing that. He gets up higher onto his elbows and starts to crawl down Sander’s body, bit by bit.

“Sorry,” he tugs down Sander’s collar, drops a kiss at the base of his throat.

“Sorry,” he says again, stamps another through the ripples of material at his chest.

“Sorry,” he noses at the hem of his hoodie, nudges it up further to sweep his tongue into the dip of his belly button. Sander squirms again, pushing at his shoulder, and Robbe lets himself be guided, shimmying down further.

His head feels heavy with blood as he finally ducks down between Sander’s legs, and opens his mouth right over the bulge in his sweats. He hears Sander suck in a sharp inhale, feels it in the way his body spasms, and Robbe’s arms tremor a little as he holds himself up, slowly closing his lips, feeling him twitch and harden under the soft cotton.

Nuzzling, he drops another kiss, careful and feather-light, and Sander’s hips give a gentle upwards buck, his left thigh quivering next to Robbe’s ear. Robbe follows the urge to lean sideways into it, feels the tiny convulsions against his cheek, and Sander’s knees drop open wider. 

“Hey Sander?” Robbe says quietly. He looks up under his lashes, lets his bottom lip catch along the length of him.

Sander lets out a quick, choked noise, wriggling up onto elbows to readjust his weight, and Robbe holds very still as he takes it all in; the see-saw line of his shoulders, the way his tongue rolls over his bottom lip and pulls it into his mouth, the eager up-down flick of his eyes between Robbe’s face and the damp spot on his sweats. 

“Mmhm?”

Robbe smiles up at him, slow and sweet. “Still frozen?”

Sander shakes his head, eyes a little wild now, his breath shuddering through him, ribcage swelling and contracting like bellows at a fire. He’s a mess, and Robbe hasn’t even got his mouth on him yet.

It sends a powerful thrill rolling up Robbe’s back, blooming across his shoulders and prickling the hair at his neck. Without breaking eye contact, he dips his head to mouth at the drawstring tie, now slung low on Sander's hips, slightly left of centre. He gets one brass tip between his teeth and pulls, unlacing the loose-looped bow bit by bit until it falls open, and Sander’s chest is heaving faster again. Leaning back, Robbe hooks his fingers under the waistband and slowly pulls, Sander pushing up as he does, easy and fluid, letting himself be unravelled. 

Robbe sits back on his knees and looks down, some molten, dizzy thing inside him backflipping as he takes in the sight of Sander laid bare beneath him, hoodie rucked up under his armpits, sweatpants loose around his knees. Suddenly he can’t remember wanting anything other than to get his fucking mouth on him, so he wets his lips and ducks back down, one arm flattened straight along the length of Sander’s torso, fingers splayed just shy of his throat to keep him grounded. 

Robbe breathes over him, looks up for any last signs of uncertainty, and Sander stares back along down the valley of his body, glassy-eyed, his bottom lip plump and blood-red. He’s all wound up, quaking and trembling, like something ready to spring loose and start chasing itself in circles across the floor.

With a tiny nod, Robbe circles one careful hand around him, holding him steady. His free hand slips further up Sander’s chest as he bows lower, laps slow and tentative at the head until Sander’s heart becomes a battering ram under his palm. When he goes to ease back, Sander sinks a fast hand into his hair, makes a throaty little noise, and the halting nudge of him against Robbe’s lips is like a question, like _please_ , or the closest Sander would ever come to it. 

Robbe doesn’t need any more than that, and they both know it. When they’re in it like this, he can never find it in himself to give Sander anything less than exactly what he asks for.

Robbe inhales through his nose, and keeps his eyes on Sander’s as he sinks down.

*

Sander looks close to passing out afterwards. He’s gone all soft with his high, head lolling about like he’s struggling to hold it up, like all the tension’s suddenly fled his body and left him full of air.

He tugs at Robbe’s shoulders, awkwardly heaves him up to press a slack, clumsy kiss to his still-wet mouth.

“Fuck, I love you,” he breathes, big loopy grin slipping across his face as he clasps Robbe’s head between his hands, and Robbe grins back down at him.

“Love you too.”

“You’re the best,” Sander continues, trails messy kisses up his cheeks, all over his face, punctuating every word. “The - fucking - best.”

He finishes with one final smack against his lips, and falls backwards, gathering Robbe to his chest with a long happy sigh. Robbe curls into him, hands sliding up under his back, knees folded along either side of his ribs. He feels a little headspun himself, like he could slip into a nap at any moment.

“You definitely don’t need to get me anything now.”

Robbe snorts softly. “Yeah I do. Need to get you like ten more things.”

“Robbe,” Sander says, patient, “You just blew me on the fucking floor, I think we’re good.”  
  
“Hmm.” Robbe’s eyes droop closed, and they stay like that for a moment before Sander tugs gently on his hair. 

“You ok?”

Robbe snuffs against his throat, nodding. “Mm-hmm.”

He lifts his head, finds Sander watching him with a suspicious little twist of a smile. His hair is a bird’s nest mess, and there are happy pink splotches across his face, and Robbe feels his heart leap at the sight of it, finds himself wishing for the hundredth time that he could capture these snapshots the way Sander can, turn that mirror his direction, show him what a bafflingly easy thing it is to love him.

Robbe drops his head back down, resettles himself into the crook of Sander’s shoulder to look up at him, the tree lights winking just past his head. He swallows down a little wave of emotion before he speaks. 

“I’m just glad you’re not making some stupid joke about Christmas coming early.”

Sander’s quiet for a moment, blinking at the ceiling like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. He lets out a soft, regretful _damn_ under his breath, and Robbe laughs, wriggles in tighter around him. 

*

It takes some effort to get himself up and back over to the couch but Robbe manages it, flopping down on his back with his feet kicked up on the armrest. He tucks a hand behind the cushion at his head and watches as Sander bends to throw a few more logs on the fire, pokes at it a bit, then steps back with a satisfied nod.

“You’re really into that, aren’t you.” 

Sander arches a brow over his shoulder. He looks almost regal, stood there all in black by the hearth, his profile etched in flickering red and his hair spiked up at the crown of his head.

“It’s good to be warm, Robbe. Plus…” Sander looks back, tosses a hand towards the flames, “making shit like this feels good.”

“I know.” Robbe lets his head fall sideways, opens his arms. “C’mere.”

Sander takes a second to carefully set the guard back in place - he’d told Robbe a pretty lengthy story once about almost setting the place ablaze when he was fourteen, so he’s vigilant now about fire safety as a rule - then pads over to the couch, yawning, and practically collapses on top of Robbe. 

“ _Oof_.” Robbe lets out a winded puff of laughter, smoothing a hand up his back. He rests it in the dip between his shoulderblades, feels them rolling either side of his palm as Sander wriggles around to get cosy. “So graceful.”

“Tired,” Sander grunts, nosing at a point just beneath his ear. 

“Aww. Did I break you?”

“Nah,” Sander says. He makes a fist in the material at Robbe’s stomach and tugs a few times, rocking him side to side. “The opposite, I think.”

Robbe smiles at the praise, curls his toes against the arm of the couch. He pulls Sander closer to drop a kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s just all this fucking work they’re gonna give me over the holidays,” Sander continues, sinking heavier into Robbe’s chest. “Even if I get my projects in on time I know they’re just gonna snow me under with more shit, it’s what they always do.” 

“Just take it one step at a time,” Robbe says, petting at the back of Sander’s neck as he start to shift around restlessly.

“Yeah I know, it’s just…it’s hard to get anything done when there’s like twenty people in the house.”

Robbe just nods, unable to come up with a solution for that one. Sander’s extended family has a tradition of descending on his house for a few days over Christmas, one of many they share that seem to involve a lot of loud people being in the same room at once. Robbe had actually met a few of them last year, gotten a window into the chaos, nervously shaking hands with Sander’s favourite uncle and looking back and forth between them as they went on about some Pink Floyd documentary he hoped he’d never have to watch. He’d bitten carefully into homemade vol-au-vents and blushed at compliments from Sander’s aunts, helped to clean up plates and sipped too-quick at his champagne until he gave himself a headache.

He’d been more at home at the end of the day, running himself ragged in the back garden with Sander’s younger cousins. He’d become a firm favourite after that. Sander’s told him since that they still ask about him, insist he come to all the family gatherings in future, and the thought of it had hit Robbe strangely, twanged at some old, deep-rooted thing inside him.

“I mean I love seeing them, but I just can’t focus with all the noise, people knocking at my door every two seconds.” Sander rolls onto his side with a scowl. “And getting a hot shower in the morning is a fucking nightmare.” 

Robbe makes a sympathetic noise and looks up at the ceiling, the way the Christmas tree throws colour-flecked light into one corner. “I wouldn’t know.”

He feels Sander readjust his head on his shoulder, and Robbe slants his chin to meet his eye, finds him looking up with a glum little smile, bottom lip pushed into his top. He seems almost apologetic.

“I know.” 

Robbe doesn’t mind, he really doesn’t, and he touches his forehead down against Sander’s to show him as much. He’s told himself many times in his life that he can’t miss what he’s never had. And maybe he’d resented it as a kid, got lonely sometimes just him and his parents, but it’s hard to relate to any of it now, not when last year had felt like a minor miracle.

He remembers one of the first nights he’d spent with his mum after she got home. Robbe sitting on one end of the couch with his feet tucked under him, quietly watching her, the way the TV flashed against the side of her face as she laughed along to some old sketch show from the eighties, warm mug in hand. 

She’d baked a small batch of shortbread afterwards - the kind Robbe’s always loved, coarse brown sugar sprinkled all over the top - and seemed so happy when he wolfed it down, brushed a careful hand against the back of his head, watching with quiet pride as he chewed and swallowed and reached for more. 

He doesn’t care much anymore about the other stuff; their wonky old tree that’s bare in places, missing branches round the bottom, probably ready for the bin. Their unpredictable oven that likes to cut out at high temperatures, turns Christmas dinner into high stakes gamble. The intrusively huge gifts from his dad that throw shadows across the rest, like his guilt’s been given material shape in the room. 

None of it matters. No Christmas morning had ever made him giddier than the sight of his mum, picking through sprouts across from him, bleary-eyed but smiling beneath her cracker hat. Or Sander, bawling himself hoarse in that icebox of a studio, sheet-white and crumpling beneath his own weight, but still there, still miraculously warm and solid under Robbe’s hands. 

Robbe remembers telling himself that he’d never ask for a thing again in his life, if he got to keep him there, tucked in safe and whole against him. He still feels like he owes some enormous debt to the universe, just for having Sander’s weight on top of him now, for feeling the steady rhythmic pump of his heart, _pah rum pum pum pum_ like that song he keeps singing, the one Robbe knows he'll hear ten more times by Christmas Eve.

“So you don’t mind it?” Sander asks, soft, neck bent at an odd angle to look up at him. “Just the two of you?”

“No.” Robbe shrugs his free shoulder and looks back down at him. “I’m just happy she feels better this year.” 

He holds Sander’s eye as he says it, fingers threading into his hair. He curls his hand and tugs once, meaningfully, at the spot where it’s thickest, and Sander’s eyelashes flutter, throat bobbing as he swallows. Suddenly his forehead creases, and he makes a frustrated noise, rolling further into Robbe until it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose.

“Wish I could keep you here,” he murmurs. “Just wrap you up, all for me.”

Robbe smiles, hand uncurling from his hair, slipping down to wind around his shoulders. He looks back up at that rainbow-flecked patch of ceiling, shifting and glinting, like something scattered through a prism. “And what, stick me under the tree?"

When Sander lifts his head, Robbe spots one of those huge wonky grins brewing, the kind that eats up half his face, has Robbe's heart booming and drumming away in perfect time.

“Nah, angel, you’d go on top.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> again the writing and editing of this was kinda disjointed, and Robbe's POV is apparently hard as fuck, who knew, so I'm not really sure what to make of this one now. if you did manage to read the whole thing, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> also, a belated happy holidays to anyone who celebrates anything this time of year, and a happy end of 2020 to anyone else x


End file.
